


The Last Night

by Tafferling



Series: Valiant Remedy Drabbles [3]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Course Language, Gen, Redfieldium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 08:44:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7677745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tafferling/pseuds/Tafferling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Piers always figured that Captain Redfield feared very little. Until the night comes that makes Chris believe it will be the last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Night

Piers shifted his back against the wall and folded his hands in front of him. He glanced at his wristwatch — _’Ten minutes, Captain.’_ — and then up at Chris Redfield as he stood in front of a tall, narrow mirror worked into the closet door. Not even half of him fitted into the reflection, though then again he wasn’t paying his mirror image a lot of attention anyway, hadn’t even noticed Piers enter the room a minute ago, remaining perfectly oblivious on how he’d settled himself by the door and watched his Captain go about— well, whatever he was currently going on about.

Vigilant wasn’t that, because at this point Piers figured he might as well have come in popping party crackers and Chris wouldn’t even have flinched.

A deceptive image, he knew. The seasoned Field Captain usually didn’t miss a beat.

Piers allowed himself a soft sigh, folded his arms in front of him, and gave the hotel room an inspection, leaving his Captain to continue his blind staring past the mirror and whatever terror awaited him past it.

The place looked barely lived in. Then again, neither of them were getting a lot of time to close a door on the world lately.

 _’Or ever,’_ he thought. Downtime was precious. And elusive as fuck.

Not a big surprise then that the room stood as tidy as the day they’d moved in, not a single sentimental item anywhere in sight. This wasn’t going to be _home_ any time soon. Just another layover while they’d waited for _that_ call.

He winced, his eyes cutting to the low, spacious bed. Impeccable, the sheets stretched taught, ready to pass the stingiest military inspection with flying colours and then some. Just as Chris liked it. It looked downright uncomfortable.

Piers stifled an unbidden yawn, and looked out the single window sitting above the headrest of the bed. The skies were turning to a dark blue hue, a sliver of pink riding up against them. Getting late. He glanced at his wristwatch again, and then back up at Chris.

Who still hadn’t moved.

His jaw was set firmly, lips pulled down in an absent minded scowl, and his arms hung stiff by his side. He sported an impressive thousand yard _stare_ , with his unfocused eyes looking straight through the mirror and past his disheveled reflection, levelled at whatever lay beyond there where it lost itself to the crippling memories of a battlefield he’d walked, or one he expected to wander through still.

Like tonight, maybe?

Piers frowned.

Chris had set his mind to the worst-case scenario, hadn’t he? The silence that crowded around him was heavy with the assumption that _tonight_ would be _the one_. The one that ended it, the one you did not return from.

_’Really, Captain? Really?’_

Piers gave his wristwatch yet another peek. Nine minutes.

_'T-minus not enough time. Wheels up in too soon.'_

And Chris hadn’t even finished dressing yet. That'd be too much to ask, obviously. The long, olive green shirt his CO wore was a crumpled, half buttoned mess with the right sleeve rolled up, the cuffs folded just below his elbow. He’d forgotten the pale undershirt too, left it lying on the bed, still nicely square and wrinkle free, along with the belt for the washed out cotton trousers.

Piers leaned his head against the wall and wondered if Chris had started all of this off with having a straight line of clothing collected on the bed, and then simply discarded the order of how they went on in favour of antagonising himself.

Sure, a _lot_ could go sideways tonight, but that didn’t mean it had to. In fact, it'd probably all go swimmingly. They'd laugh about it tomorrow. Or whenever the dust settled and the potential bruises healed. 

Chris exhaled miserably.

Frustrated and idle hands reached up to run through what had moments before been a neat, freshly washed mop of hair, leaving it in ruins and disheveled like the rest of him. No, not _all_ of him, Piers noticed. He’d fastened his leather shoulder harness in place, and that was about the only thing sitting straight.

But at least it was empty. For now. The sidearm that would fit the waiting holster lay on a greasy rag on the bedside table. Neat and clean. Like he’d sat there taking that thing apart and polishing it while the anxiety built.

_’Come on, man…’_

“Captain.” Piers cleared his throat.

Chris grunted, a startled noise befitting someone who’d just had his mind yanked away from imagining his impending doom. 

“What’s with the piece?” Piers jerked his chin towards the 1911.

His Captain’s eyes refocused, looked between him and the weapon, and his brow pinched with confusion.

“What?”

Piers sighed. The man was almost 15 years his senior, for fucks sake. A seasoned soldier, with too many tours in his log than anyone ought to ever see. He'd served since he’d been 16 years young. He’d experienced and, more importantly, _survived_ the horrors Umbrella had unleashed, and he’d fought them ever since, not once letting up. Except that one time, but that was water under the bridge, and he'd thrown himself back into the fight since then, even if no one would have blamed if if he'd gone and _lived_ for once. And during all of that, as he moved from one hardship to hardship, and horror to horror, he'd proven that it was worth it. To himself. To others. Through all those years he'd not ever really stopped. He'd formed strong, unyielding bonds with those he’d fought with, and those he’d protected. He’d loved, too. He’d lost. He’d grieved. He’d endured it all.

And when one thing was said and done, he'd always gone and faced the rest of his life, kept going, because that was what Chris Redfield did. He shouldered on forward, kept his mind set to a goal, and he’d not let anything slow him down. He was a tenacious man. A loyal man. And he would not back down from his responsibilities, no matter the cost.

But tonight? Tonight terrified him. Tonight, Chris Redfield seemed to think, was the night that would undo him.

“This is not a deployment,” Piers told the harried man who carried his heart in his throat.

Chris’ jaw twitched.

“It’s a _date,_ and you’re going to be late.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was a silly little practice piece following an exercise in the book "3 AM Epiphany": _The unreliable narrator_. And since I got tired of writing serious things, here's something ending on a good note.


End file.
